It’s late in the afternoon
And the
night is seeping in.
Dark
clouds have hovered
Around the
mountain gourd.
Like it
was deliberately washed
By a black
ink, blindly.
Against
the sky so blue
And the
bright bayou.
The
landslide at the center
Isn’t that
dangerous anymore.
A clamp of
trees on the right,
Detailed
by white paint,
Showing
its branches and trunks.
I could
say I might have seen a skunk.
At the
left is a bush of trees
Mist flew
up like it is alive and free.
Posted in: Literature,Poem,Poetry
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